


Thicker than water

by SenZen_Travers



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, Brother/Brother Incest, Incest, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Gore, The Sparda are great at feelings, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenZen_Travers/pseuds/SenZen_Travers
Summary: "There’s something in Dante that wants to grab his twin. There’s something in Dante that wants to make his brother submit. There’s something in Dante that wants Vergil bleeding under his hands. It’s always been here; it’s infected his dreams before, but right now it’s getting stronger and Dante hates it."Vergil's acting strange. Dante tries to deal with it.





	Thicker than water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darka3363](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darka3363/gifts).

> Because goods things come in two (?), here's another Secret Santa present: this time, it's for the very kind and patient [Darka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darka3363). Thank you for your patience, and I hope you like it! I ran with your "makeout" prompt and, huh, I kind of lost control along the way.
> 
> Edited by the lovely [Sootandshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow), who keeps blessing the world with fun, witty and bratty spardacest fics that I urge to read!

Dante’s demon instincts wake him first; they always do. Stupid things – or clever things, he supposes. Cleverer than him, screaming about the predator he’s letting into his territory. About the weakness he’s indulging in, stretching with ostentatious laziness as his brother climbs onto his bed.

Vergil makes no noise apart from the rustle of his clothes. He smells like blood and leather, like the fear and death of strangers. Demons, though, not humans. Dante relaxes slightly.

“Fun night?” He asks, deigning to crack an eye open.

Vergil’s hand clenches in Dante’s hair and pulls his head back, tearing an indignant groan from his throat. He starts a witty quip that melts into a cry when Vergil bites him deep. Sharp teeth tear through the artery in his neck and he grabs at his brother’s shoulders, feeling his instincts go haywire both from the wound and the blood loss.

“Dramatic asshole,” Dante groans. “Couldn’t you go for the wrist?”

He knows Vergil prefers the throat. His twin is nothing if not fond of symbolism. Dante baring his neck for him has this funny way of making him terse and growly. And Dante –

Well, Dante is a good brother who indulges his twin even when his hands twitch with the urge to tear Vergil off him. His survival instincts have endured worse; they can fuck off a moment more.

( The first time Dante had tasted his twin’s blood, back in Hell, Vergil had almost torn him apart out of reflex. Dante held on tight, though, fangs clamped on his brother’s shoulder as he struggled not to fight back because he could understand the need, the instinctive panic and outrage – because he knew, too, that attacking right now could push them over an edge they’d never climb back from. He took the pain and Vergil breathed out a few, shaky times and then the gloved hands that clawed at his neck and head awkwardly patted his closing wounds. A silent apology.

Even with his teeth deep in his brother, Dante struggled to drink. The human side of his education preemptively recoiled at the taste, at the weight of the act. Fear made his hands clammy from the taboo, the risk: what if he ended up _liking _it, what if it unlocked something in him and he just lost control?

“Just drink, Dante.”

Dante made a noise that attempted to express “I’m working on it” without forcing him to release his grip on his brother’s flesh. This was the perfect occasion for a quip about performance anxiety and his mouth was taken. The universe just wasn’t on his side.

Vergil’s hand pressed softly on the back of his head, like an encouragement. Dante tried to focus on the blood that already welled up against his tongue. _What if I lose control. I’m so hungry right now, my demon is screaming for food, what if I hurt you and what if _–

“You can’t hurt me.” Vergil’s voice was deep, assured, the same intense imperiousness he’d shown when he’d ordered Dante to fight him well-rested and well-healed. “Not in the way that matters. If you take more than what you need, I’ll live. I’ve lived through worse.”

_But I don’t want to –_

_Again –_

Vergil sighed softly. His free hand moved to Dante’s nape, warm and grounding. It was stupid to feel that way when that same hand could and would just decapitate him in a heartbeat, but part of Dante had apparently woken up trusting that morning. It felt embarrassingly good, his muscles relaxing under the touch.

“If you lose control, I’ll tear you from me with this hand.”

And _then _something in Dante just let go and he drank, finally, as his brother half-growled, half-chuckled through the pain.)

After a while, Vergil slowly pulls away from Dante’s throat. His face is blood-splattered, and he licks at his own teeth, his lips, carefully wiping the spots of reds that mar his sun-starved skin. His pupils are blown out, wide and dark, and something in Dante clenches at the sight.

He wants to touch, but they’re not the touchy-feely type. Rather, they’re the stabby-punchy type. The first times they slept in Hell, stealing blinks of rest under the dim lights of the Underworld, they attacked each other more often than not, instincts overtaking their human consciousness in the throes of sleep. After all, they’re two, big, powerful hybrids attempting to live in the same territory, and that’s – complicated. On both sides of their genetic heritage. Waking up in the middle of attempting to stab your brother isn’t Dante’s idea of a fun time.

It calmed down with time, as some deep part of themselves finally got the memo that their brother wasn’t their enemy. Dante even felt _safer_, sometimes, the whole of him basking in the fact that a being as strong as Vergil would protect him as he slept.

Dante kind of misses his twin’s presence at his side when he wakes up, now that they’re back in the human world. He _can _live without Vergil, of course; he did just that for most of his existence. But… Dante just feels _complete _when his brother’s around. They’re still learning each other – heck, they were eight-years old when they got separated, and then they’ve only ever met to fight a few times since. Unsurprisingly, it turns out that an adult Vergil is slightly more complex than his kid counterpart.

Still, there’s something here, a connection deep enough that neither of them can deny it. They fight alongside each other like flowing water, each move so natural that Dante doesn’t even realize he’s somehow read his twin’s mind before their opponents are down on the ground. According to Trish and Nero, they keep finishing each other’s sentences, which Dante hadn’t realized, either. Their Triggers are almost the same despite the years and the fluidity of demonic flesh.

Even their human faces are starting to look alike more and more as they live together, as if their bodies had just been waiting for an occasion to attune them back to each other.

Yet they’re never really touching, except when they’re fighting and when they’re – feeding. When Vergil is, actually. Dante jumped on pizzas, sundaes and other wonderful, utterly unhealthy junk as soon as they returned home, but Vergil can’t really keep human food down. He tried and puked it back up almost instantly, so they’re trying smaller steps: a mouthful of cooked meat here and there, maybe a spoonful of rice or a strawberry when the opportunity presents itself. The rest of the time, Good Bro Dante is of service. Vergil usually feeds at dawn, or night, or just pulls Dante to himself when they’re alone in the office. It’s okay. Dante’s not that sensitive to pain, and he regenerates quickly.

(And if some twisted demonic instincts in him intermingles with human love and makes him _happy _to give nourishment to his brother, well – nobody needs to know.)

“Thanks for the food. You look sluggish, Dante. Were you tired before I fed?”

Dante comes back to the moment and smiles. It fails to appease Vergil, who scours his face for hints of tiredness. He’s still sitting on the bed; their closeness feeds both animal alarm and instinctive pleasure in Dante.

“Nah, just thinking.”

Vergil doesn’t bother with a snarky response, simply raising a Color Me Astonished eyebrow. Asshole.

“It happens, you know? Can’t be a successful demon hunting entrepreneur without using your brain from time to time.”

“My poor brother. Do you wish to be left alone in your time of need?”

“Vergil, people usually suggest _the opposite _in those situations.”

Vergil’s expression flows to snobbish amusement.

“Really? _I _make you feel better, Dante?”

It’s meant as a joke, obviously, but Dante has so many sincere answers to it that he actually needs a moment to find a proper quip. He disguises his trouble by running a hand through his hair, laying the histrionics on thick as he plays the thankful little brother.

“Well, Vergil, you always know just what to say…”

“I live for my little brother’s smile.”

Dante snorts at that one. Vergil smirks with smug satisfaction and rises. Usually, he doesn’t stay to chat after feedings – he licks any spilled blood, thanks Dante with a politeness hilariously inappropriate given the circumstances and leaves. Dante doesn’t know what is earning him this extra time, but he wouldn’t mind if it happened more often.

Not that he’d ever say so, of course. Vergil and him both agree: expressing affection or need is for _chumps_. And they’re not chumps, they’re incredibly gorgeous and functional demon hunters.

“See ya downstairs.”

“Do not dawdle. I’m not your personal receptionist.”

“Aw, you love me.”

He lazes around half an hour, just to prove his point, before he joins Vergil downstairs. His brother has started to sort through the mess Dante usually leaves around, raising meticulous piles of empty pizza boxes, books, beers cans and other miscellanea.

Well, that’s new. Though he does frown at Dante’s trash, Vergil has always refused to pick it up (“I’m not your personal maid, _Dante_”). Of course, Dante can’t bow openly to Vergil’s obsession with cleanliness and order. Brotherly relationships have rules, chief among which is “always do the opposite of what your twin says”, so they rely on duels with wagers or Patty’s visits to bring a semblance of order to the shop.

Yet Vergil is indeed cleaning the _Devil May Cry_, trash bags at the ready, and Dante feels a surge of irrational anger at seeing his brother treat _his _things as his own. That’s the demon in him at play again; territorial toward none except an equal. Lady, Patty, Morrison or Trish can do whatever they want, Nero can get away with almost anything short of breaking the expensive stuff – well, that’s becoming less and less true as Dante’s instincts realize that the kid is becoming a threa… stronger by the day.

Vergil, though? The first days, Dante’s hands tingled just seeing him opening a drawer. His brother’s a rival in _his _territory and the predator part of Dante finds that unacceptable. He thought he’d gotten that part of him just about under control, but turns out that it had just waited for Vergil’s return to make him go through a second demonic puberty.

“I knew I’d get you with time,” Dante jokes with careful lightheartedness.

Vergil merely spares him a glance instead of a glare. Huh, weird. He should be offended and vexed, not just … oddly focused and on his guard. But then again, what does Dante know? It’s been years. Vergil is calmer and more wizened than the twenty-year-old Dante remembers.

“I’m merely doing charity work for a lost cause.”

“Seeking good karma? Good plan.”

_You need it _hangs unsaid between them and Dante winces. He’d not quite meant that one, though they’ve had a few spats about Nero, Vergil’s past plan to unleash Hell on the Overworld and the countless Red Grave victims.

(To be honest, Dante doesn’t really care about the mortals. Some all-too-human part of him, fueled by all-too-demonic indifference, only feels for those he loves. It was the heartless form of Vergil that was responsible for Red Grave, anyway, and he knows that V tried to help its citizens. _Still_. He’s supposed to fight for this, to care for this. His mother would have wanted him to.

_You care for her_, Vergil said once, holding Dante’s throat and squeezing, keeping him pinned to the ground. _Not for them. We don’t. Humans don’t mourn what they don’t know. You’re just trying to ape compassion_. Dante had snarled, choked on his spit as his larynx closed tighter, and clawed and fought until he was exhausted enough that he fell asleep as soon as Vergil had unhanded him.

_You’re right_, Dante had admitted hours later. He’d meant the delay deliberately, in the hope that Vergil had forgotten since then.

Of course, his twin had known precisely what he’d meant.)

Vergil just shrugs and continues his cleaning. Okay, this is beginning to freak Dante out. A docile, housekeeping Vergil is not a normal Vergil.

“Want some help?” Dante offers.

Oh, the madness one can descend to when one worries about their homicidal twin.

“Yes. Please tell me what you want to throw out.”

This is definitely weird. Dante cooperates, though, if only to keep an eye on the phenomenon. It’s pretty boring, but at least it’s short: apart from a hefty amount of trash, he doesn’t have that much to throw out. He sold all the Devil Arms he didn’t care to keep, most of his clothes don’t last and he’s not the souvenir type.

When they’re finished, all trash bags carried outside, Vergil surveys the room with a critical eye. Despite his vaguely disparaging expression, he just shrugs and leaves the cobwebs to their own devices, instead choosing to start a nap on the couch.

Vergil. Napping on Dante’s couch. What has the world come to? If they could get sick, Dante would worry. He’d tease Vergil by accusing him of turning senile, but his twin brother is always quick to turn that kind of argument back on him because of that pesky “we’re the same age, Dante” detail. Petty bastard.

By the time Vergil decides to sort his library into alphabetical order, Dante is fully convinced that his brother is

a) in excellent shape

b) in _too _excellent shape

and c) somehow still deathly ill with the “I’m an annoying order freak” sickness.

***

Vergil is spending a lot of time in his bedroom.

He rents part of the DMC from Dante: his room, a study and the upstairs bathroom. The money goes straight to appliances and Morrison’s rent – Dante doesn’t even get to see it, which is a bit vexing, if understandable. Usually, though, Vergil spends most of his time downstairs. He reads, studies old tomes, takes paid requests from Dante’s fixers for forbidden knowledge or precious artifacts, and occasionally even takes on hunting missions when Dante is otherwise occupied. (As much as Dante loves fighting alongside his brother, they’re powerful enough that taking on missions together would give them a serious case of too many cooks in the kitchen, except in this case the cooks’ problem is that they are finishing their cooking too soon and unleashing their cooking frustration on each other and possibly the scenery.)

But that routine has been changing for a few days, and Dante’s not sure he likes it. Now, the only times Vergil lingers in the Devil May Cry’s common areas is to get rid of his stuff, and Dante’s demonic instincts are getting more and more violent just _seeing him _meddling with his territory.

There’s something in Dante that wants to grab his twin. There’s something in Dante that wants to make his brother submit. There’s something in Dante that wants Vergil bleeding under his hands. It’s always been here; it’s infected his dreams before, but right now it’s getting stronger and Dante hates it.

He _likes _having his brother at his side – the answer for his half-soul’s yearning, someone to banter and fight with, his only family with Nero, who’s a lovely kid but never knew their parents or their childhood. And he knows that his devil instincts also yearn for Vergil’s presence – more and more so, actually, and in an increasingly twisted way. Last night, Dante woke up with the urge to go find his brother, lust twisting his belly. It certainly wasn’t the first time he got hard because of his twin; each of their fights tend to have this effect on him, but it had only ever manifested in twisted dreams. This desperate compulsion to go _do _something is a new one.

Why the hell is his devil side going haywire? Is it demonic territoriality gone wrong? Dante abhors it. They’ve just reached some kind of equilibrium. They are actually _getting along_. He can’t waste this chance.

Dante needs someone with which to talk this through, so obviously he goes to a bar.

“Eyh,” he asks the barman once it’s late enough and he’s drunk enough that he feels somewhat more inclined to share his problems with someone. “What does it mean if you’re living with someone and they start avoiding you?”

The barman gives him a mournful look. He’s a tall, dark-skinned man who looks as if he’s gone through a few divorces, a dozen losses and a number of painful yet invisible physical ailments. He pours Dante a new glass of “Sex In Heaven Number Sixty-Nine” and pushes it toward him.

“Yer about to break up,” he declares finally.

Dante feels as if he’s been sucker-punched.

“We’re not even going out!”

The barman sizes him up, grave and judgmental. “Whozzat, then? Kid from a divorce?”

“No! My brother.”

“Huh.”

The barman carefully wipes his bar, clearly thinking.

“Anythin’ else?”

“Well, he cleans.”

The eyes of the barman are two wells of judgment. “Cleans.”

“Yeah. What do you want me to say? He just cleans shit up. Throws my stuff away, with my consent.”

“With yer consent.”

The barman continues wiping. Dante can’t help but hang onto his next words, fascinated despite himself. He doesn’t know the bar – he simply picked the first one he found once he was far enough from the DMC – but he’s feeling like he’s getting more than his money’s worth right now.

“You sure it’s yer _brother_?” He asks, eyes boring into Dante’s face. “It’s not a gang metaphor?”

“I’m sure,” Dante swears.

Still, there’s something in the barman’s question that calls to part of his suspicions, that catches at his throat and makes him more hesitant than he should. Solemn triumph shines in the barman’s eyes.

“Huh,” he says.

“No, I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The barman pours him another glass. Dante can see his own reflection staring back at him from lurid red and sparkling blue depths, distorted by the shape of the glass. This deformed, it could be Vergil or him; there aren’t enough differences to tell at a glance anymore. Bodies attuning and shaping themselves back as they should be. If only the minds could do the same.

“It’s love,” the barman states with grave finality.

“I’m telling you –”

“When someone acts _that _weird, it’s love. Maybe he’s pretending to throw away the trash to keep it.”

“_What_?”

“Yeah, to hug it. Ya know, a dirty shirt or yer torn underwear.” The barman looks straight at Dante as he shakes his fist up and down in an unmistakable gesture. Dante is not one to be easily rattled, but right now, he’s feeling downright _shocked _– less by the incest thing than by the idea of Vergil molesting his dirty laundry, if he’s being perfectly honest, but _still_.

“No!”

“Ye should look at his bedroom.”

“He’d gut me.”

“Doesn’t want you to see what’s inside, huh?”

“No! I just mean – I won’t go there without his consent.”

“He’s tryin’ to avoid you to hide his feelings. It’s just gonna explode if ya don’t confront the situation soon.”

The barman’s tone is heavy with the finality of divine judgment. This is a voice that says: I’ve been witness to many of humanity’s weaknesses, secrets and scandals, and here is the sum of my knowledge. Dante drinks his Sex in Wherever Number Something straight up, feeling alcohol rush to his head. Demon anatomy being the bitch it is, he needs a lot of persistence to get really drunk. Vergil wouldn’t pester him for being so broke all the time if his brother only knew how costly it can be to reach a good buzz.

“We’re brothers,” he informs the barman, again.

“Sure you are, buddy.”

***

So, talking about his problems didn’t really help, because Vergil sure as hell isn’t the kind of man to do unspeakable things to Dante’s shirts in the name of love. They’re not even in love, to start with: they’re twins and enemies and family and whatever makes Dante’s heart flutter happily whenever his brother is at his side, real and content — _alive_.

They’re together. That’s all that matters. Devil fuckery isn’t going to change that. Dante will deal with it. He’s used to containing his demon instincts, unleashing the beast only when it’s of use and reining it back in as soon as it’s (_as he’s_, because it’s not a separate side of himself, no matter how hard he tries to pretend) getting too cocky.

Dante gets back late, that night – he needed to finish getting drunk, and to thank the solemn barman with his judgmental eyes, and to wander long enough that he’d feel sober when he’d get home. Nowadays, Vergil puts him on edge in a way that requires full sobriety.

When he pushes open the door of the _Devil May Cry_, Vergil’s sitting at his desk, seemingly meditating upon the Yamato. Dante cocks his head at him, surprised, before he remembers that Vergil usually lurks at night, too. His brother likes his brooding, after all, and solitary hunts of prey that he somehow always manages to find.

Vergil’s coat and hands are stained with dark ichor. Dante smiles at him, relaxed. A bit jealous. He’d have loved to fight, that night. He’d have loved to duel, that night.

To feel Vergil struggle against him and push him down and stab him to hold him in place–

“Hi, Vergil. Up late?”

“As always, yes. I was waiting for you.”

There’s no accusation in Vergil’s voice, but Dante feels himself bristling all the same. What the hell? He promptly squashes it, hiding behind a smooth shrug.

“Sorry, sorry, dinner was on its way.”

“How courteous of it.”

Dante smirks and shrugs off his coat, throwing it on the sofa. He gets rid of his high-collared shirt, a fancy thing that he likes too much to let Vergil put blood everywhere on it. His twin looks unflinchingly at him, hands rigid on the Yamato. Hungrier than he lets on, perhaps. Dante can feel the pressure of his intent, his need.

(Back when Dante’d traveled to Hell for the first time, he’d had no problem feeding. He’d skewered demons and cut strange plants, using fire to cook them when he could, swallowing raw chunks of supernatural flesh when he could not. It hadn’t been that bad. He was pretty despondent to everything, at the time. Sometimes, he’d even liked the taste.

When he went with Vergil, though – he’d joked that his stomach was getting sensitive with age, but the truth was that he’d hated it. His humanity rebelled at the stench and the aspect of their prey, and he’d absolutely refused to touch any Empusas – still gorged with the blood of human victims, so close to the tree – or any demon that acted _too _sentient, but that hadn’t been the only problem. He couldn’t content himself with _this_, Furies and Behemoths and other unsatisfying rabble that tasted merely like _demons, _when he’d had, when he’d wanted–

The truth was, he’d wanted Vergil more than any other. The blood, the flesh that should have been his, that smelled so similar to his yet weren’t. Half-human, half-devil, making him hungry for both. Dante could probably have survived from the fauna and flora alone if Vergil hadn’t been at his side, his stomach lurching every time they’d cooked something that wasn’t what his instinct desired.

“You have to eat,” Vergil had stated when Dante had once again stopped after a few bites.

“Yeah, well, ‘giant caterpillar’ has never been my idea of a pleasant picnic, okay? I’m not hungry anymore.”

That was a lie. Starvation gnawed at his stomach, though he knew he could go without food for a while if he so chose – only that he’d almost never done it in his life, and his body rebelled strongly now that he tried to get it rid of this pesky “eating” habit.

Vergil stared at him and sighed.

“Are you hungry for me?”

Dante’s heart tripped over itself, stopped, and then frantically tried to start again. “_Pardon_?”

“Hunger, Dante. The desire to consume. Do you feel craving for my flesh, perhaps?”

In that very moment, Vergil wore the same damn expression he’d had when they were kids and he was trying to explain some crucial truth he’d deemed obvious and found foreign to Dante – _there is no monster under our bed, Dante, you’ll only damage the parquet if you try to fight it_. Dante, in contrast, felt like he had the dirtiest mind of all of the Underworld.

“Vergil, I – I feel like I’m missing something, here.”

“I’m offering you my blood.”

Thank fuck. Dante laughed, and then realized what his brother had just said.

“Wait, you’re kidding, right?”

“Yes,” Vergil quipped dryly, “I often jest about fraternal cannibalism.”

Dante’s chest clenched hard and the beast in his blood panted and snarled and scraped at his stomach in raw, desperate begging. _He wants it, he offered, he’s giving <strike>himself</strike>_ _this to me_ and half of these thoughts Dante didn’t even want to own up to at all because he can’t, because he’s human – half-human –

“You can’t be serious.”

“You are repeating yourself.”

Dante rubbed his face hard and forced on a smile.

“You know, I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that getting eaten isn’t good for one’s health.”

“I can consume demons to replenish my strength. You’ll drink my blood. It’s not a big strain for beings such as us.”

Dante wanted it so badly; he could feel the pulse of his heart drumming between his temples – a raw ache digging in his guts claws first, blind and needy.

He pulled his smile into a grin. Clenched his jaw until he felt the pain in his teeth.

“I think I’ll pass.”

Months later, he still remembers (misses) the taste of Vergil’s blood).

***

Nowadays, Dante feels hyperaware of Vergil’s presence. His demon rages louder every time his brother’s fangs tear through his flesh, and he often finds himself grabbing at his twin’s nape when Vergil feeds – a possessive gesture that leaves his palms burning when he realizes he’s doing it.

“Can I?” Vergil asks politely.

Despite his tension, Dante laughs and raises his chin just enough to catch Vergil’s eyes, to see pure fire light up ice-cold blue.

“Drinks are on the house,” he jokes.

And then Vergil’s lips are on his throat, so soft they hurt, and then Vergil’s teeth are tearing through his flesh, again. Dante slumps against the wall, fighting his demon back as his brother’s strength pins him where he stands.

Lust flares unexpected in Dante’s veins, molten heat mixed with fiery pain. He gasps louder than expected and Vergil’s jaw unclenches.

The words “don’t worry about it” catch in Dante’s throat when his brother’s tongue lavishes over closing flesh. He’s not sure he’d own up to the noise that escapes him instead of speech if he was with a stranger; the fact that it’s his _twin’s_ mouth tearing that sound out of him now makes it even worse.

“Hey–”

Dante’s voice is a raw, shuddering thing, the opposite of what it should be to joke about the strange ambiguity of the situation. It makes him fall silent for once, tension clutching at his guts – tension and–

No. Nononono_no_. His fingers close on Vergil’s shoulder just as his brother bites down again and it’s lucky that Vergil can read him well enough to open his jaw before he pushes him away, else Dante would have just torn off his own throat by way of his brother.

Vergil doesn’t say anything, neither to protest nor to question Dante. He just looks at him, silent, his expression unreadable on a face that carries more and more of Dante’s. His cheeks are flushed, his lips and his chin stained with Dante’s blood. His eyes, dark pupils against the thin circle of his irises, bore straight into Dante’s.

Dante can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’s been at a loss for words. This is definitely one of those.

“Sorry,” he says finally. “Stupid reflex. Continue.”

Vergil shakes his head softly, but then his mouth is back on Dante. This time, he bites softly, as if he suspected his previous roughness was the cause for Dante’s recoil. There’s poison in his kindness; his slowness leaves Dante reeling with the sensation, pain sizzling down his nerves so close to desire that he –

That he –

Fuck –

He tries to pant as silently as possible. Vergil probably hears, of course, can surely feel the shudders under his hands.

He doesn’t speak a word about it.

Dante doesn’t, either.

***

Dante’s suspicions take form later, when Vergil begins to take his few possessions outside his room – hangs the paintings he’s bought on the walls of the main office and lays his violin on one of Dante’s shelves. This behavior is so innately non-Vergilesque that Dante has a sudden flash of understanding about what’s really going on with his twin.

… Well, damn.

Of course Vergil would act the opposite of him in _these _occasions: when haven’t they been at odds? In Dante’s case, it makes him cagey, makes him surround himself with the few things he calls _his_ and stay in the shop, while Vergil is gone most of the day now – _hunting_, he says most of the time, or _sightseeing_, smirking as he lies (or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Vergil really does some tourism. The Yamato certainly is conducive to free travel. In this case: crappy of him not to invite Dante along!)

Dante should probably hunt too – if only because his account is getting in the red – but he doesn’t feel like it. Instead, he stays and reads, listen to dumb variety shows on the radio, plays on Vergil’s violin to spite him until his brother takes it back to his room, reacquaints himself with his electric guitar afterward, and naps a lot. Annoyance, anger and _something else_ sizzles and simmers under his skin; sometimes, he wakes up partly transformed, his body reforming to human with the fugitive reluctance of a dirty thought.

He’s going to have to leave the shop for a while, he knows. Probably in a few days – he can _feel _it, demon instincts thrumming against his spine. Usually, he spends most of his time carefully controlling them, but with Vergil – he finds himself slipping up, sometimes.

Indulging.

Wanting blood in his mouth and warm, strong muscles under his hands–

Dante reads and listens to the radio a lot.

***

Trish rarely knocks. When she does, it’s because she wants her arrival to be noticed, and thus Dante can’t help but feel interested as he rises from his daily nap on his desk.

“Hi, Trish! What brings you here?”

“Which one of you is about to go into heat?”

_Oh. _Dante snaps back to awareness and laughs. He’d feel embarrassed to have taken so long to understand what was happening while Trish got it instantly, but at the same time – he’s been basking in Vergil’s scent every day and every hour, the _Devil May Cry _saturated by their common presence; of course he didn’t smell the subtle changes. That, and he’s too used to repressing his demonic instincts outside of combat. But he’s not ready to have yet another conversation with Trish about the Importance Of Fully Acknowledging One’s Blood Including The Bestial Urges.

“Come on, Trish! Don’t tell me you can’t distinguish between me and Vergil’s scent?”

Trish smiles charmingly and steps forward, brushing the edge of his desk with sharp, dark nails. She doesn’t seem affected by the pheromones that Vergil’s been releasing all over the place – as an artificial demon, she doesn’t go into heat. Lucky her.

“I can’t distinguish between you and Vergil’s scent _anymore. _Better?”

“Let me think about it.”

“One, two, three, four...” She counts suavely before she resumes staring at him in a smiling, slightly threatening way. “Thought enough yet?”

“Maybe,” he concedes. Trish likes good banter, but she can get petty when her curiosity is denied.

“So, which one of you?”

“Vergil.”

“Sure it’s not you?”

“Hey, I know the signs! Vergil’s doing the opposite of nesting, the opposite of resting at home to save strength, and he’s showing nothing. That’s his way of going into heat.”

Trish takes two steps backwards, studying him with amused interest.

“You’re aware that it makes no sense?”

“It makes Vergil sense. Trust me.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

“Well, leaving him the house.”

“He knows when it’ll start?”

“Didn’t talk about it with him.”

Dante meets Trish’s gaze. Okay, that is obviously a wrong answer, somehow.

“I feel like you’ve got a suggestion,” he says lightly.

“Did you talk about it with him?”

“Why would I?”

“_Dante_.”

Dante can only admire how she can charge a single syllable with so much exasperation. She should enter a competition with Vergil. She crosses her arms fluidly – always a bit too smoothly, just enough that it catches the eyes. Human-looking or not, feelings or not, something in Trish will always smell of the demonic. Dante takes it as a life lesson.

“Dante, he –” Trish cuts herself off. There’s a hint of hesitation in her – not something Dante sees often – before she speaks again. “How do you plan on explaining your departure for his heat if you don’t talk about it?”

“Well, a long hunt.”

“You don’t even know how long it will be.”

“Same length as mine.”

“You don’t even know if he’s _aware _he has heats. He looks good at self-denial.”

“Trish, I’ve been having them since I was a teenager.”

There it is again, that hesitation so uncharacteristic of Trish. This time, though, she grits her teeth and blurts it out.

“Dante, demons only get heats if they are healthy enough. I never saw Nelo Angelo go into heat, and after you k– Mallet Island, he certainly didn’t–”

Buzzing rage rushes to Dante’s head, smothering him in blind wrath, and he feels himself lurch forward on his desk – one heartbeat and he’s pushing it down again, blinking as he presses his temples with his fingertips hard enough to feel his nails digging in, taken aback by the screaming violence that wants Trish’s throat torn apart for no better reason than _skewer the messenger_. When Dante raises his head, Trish isn’t standing near his desk anymore – she’s near the door, eyes wide and pupils pin-tight, sweat beading on her exposed neck. She’s standing prepared for a fight, though she’s struggling to hide it as she meets his gaze and relaxes.

Dante smiles and leans backwards, giving himself time to find his words. He feels familiar self-loathing settling again, slowly smothering away the rage that still pulses in every fiber of his being.

“Well,” Dante says. “Okay, you’re right. He probably hasn’t gone into heat since he was nineteen. He might think he can’t anymore. I’ll talk to him.”

Trish straightens, returning to her usual poise.

“What a brave, brave man.”

“I live for the praise.”

She smirks at him.

Dante is lucky to have such friends, probably.

***

Talking with Vergil is easy; it’s talking with Vergil about serious topics which is hard. They get along just fine when they don’t talk about anything too touchy. Do heats count as the latter? Apparently, given the difficulties Dante is having broaching the subject, the answer is “yes.” He spends two days agonizing over the right moment to drop the bomb before he gives up and just asks. Vergil’s just finished feeding; ghost-pain is throbbing along Dante’s neck, warm with his demon’s lustful anger. They’re both trying very hard to ignore the fact they’re panting.

Dante waits for Vergil to wipe his face and get up.

“Hey, so. When are you having your heat?”

Vergil blinks at him, confused, before slow realization dawns on his face. So the dumbass _really _didn’t know? Dante reins in the urge to laugh. His brother is so good at self-denial, it’s really too bad it’s not a national sport. They’d earn _millions_.

“Probably in a few days,” Vergil answers stiffly.

Of course, he won’t confess he didn’t know. Dante smiles, trying to keep his tone light.

“You’ll want me to leave the shop?” Truth to be told, something in Dante recoils at the idea – demon possessiveness over the _Devil May Cry_, probably – but he’ll do what his brother needs.

Vergil looks hard at him. “Why should you?”

“I know I get territorial when I’m in heat. And aggressive.” _And I want to jump anyone I smell_.

“I know how to control myself, Dante. And I don’t want you...” Vergil pauses and inhales silently. “You don’t need to bother for my sake.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Still. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with the situation as it presents.”

Maybe it’s innate brotherly distrust, but Dante listens to his twin – tall and straight, the very image of cold authority – and remembers distinctly the “no heat since he was nineteen” thing. Vergil has no actual idea of what he’s talking about. Maybe he _thinks _he does, maybe he _knows _he doesn’t but pretends so that Dante “won’t bother,” but in any case…

Maybe it’d really be better if Dante stayed home for Vergil’s heat. It doesn’t matter if Vergil attacks him: if his brother hasn’t dealt with it in decades, he could get into trouble.

“Okay, Vergil, your choice.”

Vergil hums something that could be agreement or refusal and thumbs absently at the Yamato’s guard. His gaze scours Dante, sharp with a calculating edge that Dante’s not sure he likes.

“So… Dante. When are you having your heat?”

At first, Dante just gapes at him, searching for the point of such a question out of the blue, and then the assertion hidden in his brother’s question hits him. He quickly reviews his behavior of the last few weeks, the reclusiveness and the moodiness and the heightened sex drive.

_I can’t differentiate between your scents anymore_, Trish had said.

Faces slowly attuning, and their bodies too...

Well, _fuck_.

***

In the end, they both stay at home. Dante wouldn’t have been able to leave, anyway. With each passing day, he’s growing more reclusive. Vergil’s presence in _his_ territory is driving his instincts mad, and it’s _not _getting easier now that Dante fully knows the reasons why – aggressiveness from a rival, yes, but also wild and frustrated lust.

He’s preparing for a very fun heat. It’s gonna be alright, though. He’s stocked on frozen pizzas, consolation ice creams, strawberries and various junk food. No alcohol; he needs to stay perfectly in control during these times.

The complicated part is going to be Vergil’s food, because his brother still can’t handle anything but raw flesh or blood. After some testing, they’ve discovered he can get it from animals, partly, but it’s far from sufficient; he still needs demonic or human vitae and, anyway, it’s not as if Dante’s fridge is big enough to stock a slasher movie’s worth of meat, which they’d need for the few days of seclusion that they’re preparing for. Home delivery is kind of not an option when it involves overpowered half-demons.

He’ll need to drink Dante’s blood, the very thing he already can’t do without the both of them ending up hard and wanting now. Last time Vergil bit him, Dante found himself clinging to him like a lover, trying hard not to moan, and he’d felt the way his brother’s lips moved over his skin.

Fun times!

He’s not going to hurt his brother and he’s not going to let Vergil do anything he’ll regret.

He’s not.

Then Dante wakes up one day, and know his heat has started.

***

Dante’s familiar with frustration. He feels it often: the lack of fun adversaries, the restlessness of his fighting urges when he spends too long without hunting, sparring with Nero where he knows he can’t – or he doesn’t dare – go full force (he can hurt Vergil. They’ve left each other bloody and maimed more often than he can count, for fun included. He _can’t _hurt the kid, not seriously. His nephew, Vergil’s child, the one he tried to protect as well as he could.)

In the end, sexual frustration is kind of the same. Can’t spell “bloodlust” without “lust,” huh? He just needs to draw from the same will as usual, the same self-imposed imperative: he _won’t _let anything happen to anyone because of him, Vergil least of all. He’ll protect everybody, including from himself if he needs to.

He does so more often than he’d like.

Vergil. Is his brother alright? Part of Dante want nothing more than to see him (to ensure that he’s safe, okay, in control), but – no. Bad idea. He closes his eyes, still curled on his bed, aware of the frustrated shudders that rake through him. Lust is a fog in his mind and lungs, urges that pull him into a hundred senses at once. His hand is already sneaking between his legs, grabbing at the hardness it finds here. He’s dimly aware that he’s not entirely in human shape: his skin is a tad too thick, the jut of his hips too sharp, and his cock feel slightly ridged between his fingers. Nothing unusual. He’ll shift forms all through his heat as his organism goes haywire.

There’s a strong demon nearby.

Well, _duh_, of course there is. His brother is here.

There’s a strong demon nearby. Now that he’s not blinding himself with human self-denial, each breath that Dante takes makes him more aware that the air is heavy with the other’s pheromones. Healthy, strong, wanting –

Yeah, yeah, awesome, his twin is in good shape. None of Dante’s business. None at all. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t want–

Want; knowing Vergil’s curling up in his own room, breathing in his scent on every inhale, just as Dante is breathing in Vergil’s scent, desire laid bare between the two of them. There’s no pretending they wouldn’t want each other and the obscene intimacy of it clenches Dante’s guts–

– to know. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to think of it. Except that it’s like some obscene version of the “don’t think about a pink hippopotamus” children’s game where the more Dante tries to erase Vergil out of his mind, the more he can’t help but to picture him lying in his bed, touching himself the same way Dante is doing currently.

_Bodies attuned_. Does Vergil like the same things Dante does? He instantly tries to derail this train of thought toward Fuckno Station, except his hand is still grabbing his erection, slowly caressing its length, and he’s imaging Vergil doing the same, clutching slightly at the base of his shaft and pressing his thumb against the slit, moving it in small circles –

Don’t think –

Of course Dante thinks about it. Lust chokes him so hard he feels like he’s hallucinating, picturing Vergil’s hands and cock and pleasure transposed over his own with a vividness that makes his voice far louder than he’d hoped.

When he comes, he feels dirty and ashamed and twice as unsatisfied.

***

A few hours later, the hunger comes. His more bestial urges are whispering about Vergil’s flesh and blood so near, and he _knows _he could convince him, maybe – surely – Vergil’s already fed him in Hell, would surely accept if pressed –

Aaaaand no Vergil for Dante, only frozen pizza and good, healthy junk food. Dante tries to focus on the familiar taste as he stumbles off his bed and down to the kitchen. He has to walk past Vergil’s room to reach it; the scent of pheromones is even thicker here, rushing straight to his head – heads – and Dante trips over his own feet as he tries to force himself to keep going.

It’s hard, harder than almost killing a mortal for the first time and stopping at the last moment. Every inch of him wants to reach for the door handle. He just has to turn, take a few steps. He just has to call Vergil’s name. Drink some blood, just drink some blood, nothing more, and if Vergil doesn’t stop him, if Vergil doesn’t really resist, doesn’t that mean something? Why is Dante resisting? It’s not _hurting _Vergil, for once. It’s not hurting him. If Vergil doesn’t really fight him and he won’t, because he wants it, too, because both of their bodies want it so bad–

Dante clenches his jaw and triggers, stabbing himself with his summoned swords as soon as they appear. The pain helps him come back to himself; he let them form a shield in front of Vergil’s door and manages to stumble to the stairs.

Behind him, Vergil’s door handle pivots down. Dante’s heart jump between his ribs. He turns toward the noise despite himself, pulse spiking.

His brother is a disheveled mess, face flushed and eyes hazy – focused on him like summoned swords. He’s wearing a pair of loose pants and a T-shirt that probably belongs to Dante – when the fuck did he take that? Why the fuck is he wearing Dante’s stuff?

“Vergil?” Dante’s voice is a low, throaty growl. Vergil takes a step toward him. He’s still holding the Yamato, fuck.

“You’re bleeding.”

_Fuck_. Of course. Vergil must be hungry, like him, and Dante stopped in front of his room, released a triple fuckton of pheromones and then proceeded to bleed all over the floor. There’s probably something clever to do or say in this situation, but Dante doesn’t have the brainpower to think about it because he’s desperately trying not to jump his brother here and now. He can feel their lust in the air, so thickly entwined he doesn’t know where his twin’s desire begins and where his ends, and his mind is a mess of conflicting urges.

Vergil moves so slowly, yet Dante can’t seem to stop him in time. His brother’s fingertips are burning, resting just under the angle of Dante’s jaw. If Vergil decided to, he’d probably be able to tear part of his face off right now.

Dante waits. He can’t think, can’t act, so he hangs on his brother’s gesture – the slight tremble of the fingers curling around his neck, pulling him forwards toward what he can’t accept. He should fight it, but the most he can do is keep still under Vergil’s hands. Keeping himself under control hurts physically, makes his head swim with stress that borders on terror.

“This is not what you wish,” Vergil rasps.

It’s the first time Dante’s heard his brother sound that desperate and it clenches something hard in his chest, fuels the lust pounding in his veins. His hands move on their own, brushing against Vergil’s hips, and Dante pulls them away as if burned.

“Vergil – I’m sorry–”

“Don’t. It’ll be alright.”

Vergil’s touch around his neck is warm, grounding. Dante wants to feel more of his skin, to take and to claim, to be so close to him that they’d forget where each of them began and ended.

“Dante. Can I feed?”

The phrasing is polite, the tone wracked with need, and Dante can’t refuse any more than he can refuse breathing.

“Everything,” he answers, not quite to Vergil’s question.

Yet Vergil understands it as what it is. Suddenly he’s lunging at Dante, who grabs him in reflex, and they both stumble and fall to the floor. Dante’s pinned by his brother’s weight and he’s undone enough that he loses control for a blink, inverting their positions with a snarl. He grabs at Vergil’s shirt to tear it off him and freezes when his claws rip through the fabric.

“Sorry–”

Vergil’s fangs tear through his neck and Dante’s mind goes blank. He shouts and trembles, the pain from the bite entirely overshadowed by the intimacy of their embrace – Vergil’s lips warm and wet against his throat, Vergil’s hands on his nape and shoulders, Vergil’s body pressed against his, their legs intertwined. This close, he can feel Vergil’s arousal as clearly as he can smell it.

Dante hears himself whining with the sheer effort of keeping control. His whole body is screaming its reluctance, self-hatred from both sides of the coin – his humanity, for being so weak, and his animality, for refusing himself what would be so easily _his. _He wants to fight Vergil, to fuck Vergil, to drink from him and tear his flesh and kiss it better and –

Dante hugs his brother as hard as he can, converting part of his frustration and rage into the embrace. To his surprise, Vergil actually returns the gesture, one arm draping around his shoulders, his free hand still grabbing Dante’s nape.

When Vergil stops feeding, he doesn’t release Dante. Dante doesn’t let go, either; he’s not sure of what would happen if he did. Need claws at him, mixing with raw hunger. He feels drunk, desperate, aching, but he hangs on to his humanity and to his love for his brother because there’s no way he’s gonna hurt Vergil now.

They stay entangled for a while, feeding off each other’s presence. The urges come back in waves, raking through them at the same time – easy enough to guess when they shudder or cling harder simultaneously, nails or claws tearing each other against their will.

This close, Dante can feel how their breath is attuned, too.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this. Eventually, Dante’s hunger grows too painful. When he catches himself drooling from the smell of Vergil’s blood, he manages to tear himself from his twin and stumble to the kitchen.

It’s hard, leaving Vergil. It feels like tearing his skin off, like bare handedly pulling his guts out. Dante’s had an easier time pulling himself up off a sword, hilt included, than he has getting away from his twin.

He eats two pizzas and an ice cream. He feels like he deserves it.

***

The next day is worse, and Vergil doesn’t seek him out at first. Dante spends the first hours feverish, forcing fruitless pleasure out of himself. It’d be better to find a succubus, less painful, less tempting – but he knows, from previous experience, that he needs a partner strong enough to survive him without his usual limits. He’s less good at keeping his shackles tight in those times. And when he indulges, he indulges dangerously.

His whole room smells like Vergil and him. His whole house smells like Vergil and him. He wants to go find his twin, to touch him again. He wants to take Vergil, to breed him, to make them one, and human self-censorship is pretty much out of the window when he’s already focusing so much willpower on not making his fantasies a reality.

When Dante thinks himself exhausted enough, skin raw and frustration etched into his veins, he takes a shower and ventures outside to eat. Bright light gushes from the windows, making him blink. A glance at the clock confirms his hunch: evening is already approaching. He spent most of his day jerking off.

Heats, he thinks wryly. A yearly occurrence to relive teenagerhood.

Eating restores some of Dante’s strength and awareness. Vergil’s still in his room. Passing his door is torture, but he manages to make himself do it without any stabbing, this time.

Once inside his own room, Dante curls up on the bed, pulling the sheets around him. Vergil’s smell in his territory, in his nest, pulls him right back to his fantasies. He tries to grab a porn mag, but pretty plastic flesh on glossy pages loses to the dream-vividness of Vergil and what Dante could do to him, what _Vergil _could do to Dante. Human flesh is pretty, fragile, meaningless, when his twin –

Dante loses hours, again.

***

Dante’s demon instincts wake him first, as they always do. Stupid, clever things, rousing Dante even before he wakes.

Vergil makes no noise apart from the rustles of his torn, bloody clothes. Dante feels a pang of alarm before he recognizes the smell as theirs. His twin just didn’t change, didn’t shower, and probably didn’t eat as well.

More than twenty years without a heat.

Dante welcomes him, of course; how could he not? He grabs Vergil’s arms, pulls him closer, still thankfully drowsy enough that violence and lust are only shadows lurking in his blood.

“Dante,” Vergil whispers – deep, harsh, demanding. Something in Dante keens in answer, tightening his grip on Vergil’s flesh. Dante’s hips jerk against his brother’s thigh, pleasure so bone-deep it stuns him, and he moans from pure, desperate frustration at the instant shame that stops him from doing it again.

Vergil makes a noise that sounds like pain and bites his throat deep, trying to pin his wrists on the sheets.

It hurts, of course, but Dante’s so keyed up that it all feels like shades of pleasure and his demon instincts rush to the fore. He bites at the air and claws at Vergil, trying to tear rather than pull him off because _this_, the pain, Vergil’s shuddering breath, Vergil’s fangs in his flesh, Vergil’s tongue lapping at his skin and dipping in the bite mark, this is the closest thing to sex that his shreds of humanity can accept and he wants more, to bleed and make bleed, to feed and to be fed upon. He wants it all, a bloody embrace he can call _fighting _while craving and growling for more. And Vergil feels the same, Dante knows, Dante can’t help but know.

They’re the same, both of them.

They lose hours, together.

***

They spend the days on blood and embraces and violence so intimate it’s almost sex (almost, but not _quite_, and that’s the whole point; that’s the whole _goddamn _point). They’re not leaving each other now, except for blinks of time where frustration makes Dante’s mind and senses blur before he comes back to his brother.

It’s almost tender, sometimes, the biting and clawing. Other times, it’s wrathful frustration, roars that swing between human and demonic as they struggle for self-control. They’re not talking about what they’re trying to resist; they both know, and they follow the same goal with the same dogged determination.

Vergil snaps more often than Dante, more lost to the lust. They occasionally pretend they don’t see or smell or hear the other burrowing deep into the sheet and getting himself off for a shred of sanity. Dante knows the noises his brother makes when he’s desperate and edged, now. He can feel the ghost sensation of his orgasm, the way he shudders ever so slightly and then curls into himself, biting off sounds that fuel Dante’s arousal in turn.

Once, Vergil almost kisses Dante – bites his lips instead, tearing them. They fight themselves bloody that time, until they’re too exhausted to move.

Dante’s bedroom is a slasher movie’s scene. The smell comforts him instead of freaking him out.

***

One day, Dante wakes up fully aware of himself.

The ever-present lust has disappeared, as well as the instinctive violence. Dante blinks at the ceiling – blood-splattered too, Hell – and slowly counts his limbs, fingers, toes. All there. Good. He’s lying on what was previously his bed and is now a mess of dried blood, sweat and ... yeaaaah. Burning is usually the only solution after a heat, at least for the sheets. He’s hoping he can get the bed back, though the massive wooden panels of its head are dark with dried gore. From what he can see, at least. Vergil is draped over him, his face buried against the curve of Dante’s shoulder, and Dante just doesn’t feel like waking him up right now.

As if reading his thoughts, Vergil stirs with a lazy relaxation that seems absolutely miraculous on Dante’s rigid brother. He’s probably feeling the same light-headed relief that’s lulling Dante right now.

“Sleep well?” Dante asks affectionately.

He’s missed being able to form articulate sentences.

“Hm.”

Vergil nuzzles softly at his shoulder. Dante feels a familiar warmth pool in his belly. A remnant of the heat? No, it always leaves him entirely, like an offended ex taking everything including the groceries; his libido is actually lower than usual after his heat is through.

It’s all Vergil. He’s praying that the thick, musky smell that pervades the air will hide his arousal, but then Vergil kisses slightly at his favorite place to bite and Dante’s brain freezes.

“… Vergil?”

Is Vergil still in heat? After all, he hadn’t had one for so long, maybe his body wants to compensate. Dante stupidly assumed they would be perfectly synced, but maybe – no, Vergil’s scent returned to normal. Is he feeling ghost-lust? He kisses softly at Dante’s jugular and the gentleness is so at odds with the usual pain that Dante can’t help but gasp.

“Vergil!” He protests, grabbing Vergil’s blood-matted hair to force him to raise his head.

Vergil obeys, looking far too impassive for someone who’s _nuzzling _at their twin’s throat. Dante feels something catch in his throat, anticipation curling in his guts.

“Yes, Dante?”

“You’re–”

“Yes. You’re not resisting.”

He’s not. A normal brother would have freaked out, but Dante’s just low-key panicking at his lack of panic. He’s trying hard to grab onto his human scruples, but they’ve this paper-thin texture of abstract principles under his fingers, tearing into dream-shreds, because Vergil is there and wanting him.

What fueled Dante those last days, he realizes suddenly, hadn’t been the taboo of incest. He’d totally forgotten about it during these days of lust and delirium. He wanted to protect Vergil from them both. To prevent his brother from doing something he’d regret.

He’d wanted so hard to be _there _for Vergil, to offer him protection and nourishment and safety from everything including Dante. He still wants it now, as he feels the small miracle that is his brother’s relaxed form against his. That _was_, at least. Vergil is tensing, anticipating rejection, maybe.

And something in Dante objects: it’s not _romantic_ love. It’s brotherly love, yearning for his brother’s presence and dry humor and sharp wit and cold poise and unbound power. It’s not the sappy shit normies talk about, the one when you do grand declarations of eternal bonds and hold hands in a boring fancy restaurant before popping The Big Question that is, apparently, “will we pretend that this thing is going to last forever and launch into careless promises of eternal devotion?” It’s wanting to be with Vergil, and also to fight and claim and, well, fuck.

It’s being fucking happy when you should have no right to be.

“I –”

And with all this thinking of love —Dante almost said the word — he trips over his tongue as he tries to correct course.

“Eyh, c’mere,” he asks, pulling Vergil closer.

Vergil obliges.

Dante hasn’t kissed in so long he’s forgotten what it feels like. The softness of Vergil’s lips against his lasts for a blink and then instantly his brother’s licking at his teeth, deepening the kiss to scour Dante’s mouth with the demanding intensity that is his in everything. They’re not used to it, the both of them, but they know each other so well that they guess easily at the small things – sucking lightly at Vergil’s lips, feeling the shuddering of his breath, or caressing his tongue lightly; biting him just enough for a sharp pang, struggling for dominance, feeling desire and light-headed pleasure mix sweetly in his whole being. Dante breaks the kiss first, taking a few breaths, but then Vergil’s hand cups his nape and they resume as Vergil’s thigh pushes between his legs.

Dante’s lust should be almost extinguished, but it apparently didn’t get the memo. It’s just slow as it ramps up along tingling nerves, lights up small sparks under still-overstimulated skin. Their hands are slow on each other, too, retracing the lines of their neck, shoulder, arm, fingers intermingling in brief embrace before they resume exploring the flesh they’ve torn apart so often.

It feels so strangely good, so utterly foreign. Dante’s heart feels like it’s filled with something light, on the verge of exploding in a good way, which makes absolutely no sense. He fits himself closer against Vergil, lazily rolling his hips against his, and hears his breath catch. It’s such a small thing – and from his twin, it means the world. Lust flowers bigger in him, taking root deeper in his every muscle. He wants to repeat _I love you _and it’s a good thing that his mouth is taken, or he’d really slip up.

When they break apart, it’s only to kiss other parts of their skins. Vergil kisses his hand, finger by finger, and his palm, and its heel, and the inside of his arm; Dante does the same, adding small licks of his tongue just to feel Vergil nibble him in retribution.

Slow, so slow. The intermingling of their body feels so natural, pleasure unfolding unhurriedly from each touch, that Dante can’t worry about anything but how good he feels and how easily he anticipates Vergil’s actions and sensibilities. Vergil’s not noisy, not at first, trembling pants and small catches of breath that sound more erotic than a pornstar’s moan, but then they really get going – their hands intertwining around their erections, lightly at first and then more firmly. It’s easy, knowing exactly where to press to make Vergil’s knees buckles, channeling heat and pressure in answer and prevision to the slow rise of his voice.

Vergil is silent, and then he isn’t anymore. He barely made a noise back then, touching himself in the throes of the heat, but he cries out under Dante’s hands and Dante could come from that alone – but there are his brother’s clever, skilled hands, too, and there’s the way Vergil drinks in every reaction from Dante, visibly reveling in him, in _them_. Pleasure mounts in him inexorably and he fights it, tries to make it last just a little longer even as their rhythm falters, as his mind focuses only on the pleasure and the joy and Vergil against him, over him, trembling and making the most beautiful noises and being so beautiful, so real, alive, _his_, Dante loves –

He might have said it out loud when white ecstasy overthrew him, better and deeper than any of the solitary _petites morts_ he’s gone through during the heat.

He’d heard Vergil says something as their release mingled together on their bellies, but his twin’s been cleverer than him; he whispered his words just against Dante’s heart, the lingering feel of his lips settling warm against Dante’s skin.

“What d’ya say?” He asks when they’ve both recovered.

Vergil is still lying over him, one hand against his hip, the other against his cheek, legs tangled with his. The casual tenderness fuels something in Dante that is far more difficult to admit than lust.

Vergil thinks his answer over.

“I was saying,” he answers slowly, “that you really need a shower.”

“_Me_, alone? You mean _us_? We’re both messes!”

“Good point.”

Vergil rises slowly. Dante’s skin feels cold without him.

“I’m taking the first shower,” Vergil declares.

He’s bloody, sweaty, messy, glorious. Dante instinctively savors the view, then adverts his eyes out of reflexive human morals, then remember that they’ve crossed over that line just a few seconds ago and looks again. It’s not the resemblance that he finds beautiful, though he loves seeing how they’re looking closer and closer to each other every day; it’s Vergil himself, the supple stance of a predator and the proud intelligence in his eyes, the life branded into features animated by a soul so different from his own.

“You’re aware that by claiming dibs on the shower, you force me to fight you for it?” Dante informs him.

“_Or _we could both go. Your bathtub is ridiculously big enough,” Vergil states calmly. He gives Dante the hint of a smirk. “I could wash your back and hair.”

Vergil’s voice sounds unfairly composed when Dante’s breath catches at the suggestion. He imagines his brother’s hands sliding slowly over his skin and massaging his scalp and just petting him and _yes_, he wants that, and he wants to do the same to Vergil.

Vergil raises an eyebrow and huffs in amusement. He’s not that good at laughing outside of combat, though he’s getting better with time.

“Who knew that flirting with you was the solution to make you shut up?”

“Yeah, you should do that more often,” Dante quips back.

He rises and grabs for Vergil, feeling his brother’s hand close around his. They’ve been lying intertwined for so long, Dante feels like his body has developed some addiction to his twin’s closeness.

“Maybe you should even buy me presents. A new coat. A new table. That cool belt I’ve been ogling lately?” He bats his eyelashes at Vergil, loving his judgmental frown. “Come on, Vergil, I’m ready to put out!”

“You have the making of a gigolo, brother.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Just keep to one client.”

Dante laughs.

“You’re in luck, I’m too lazy to have more than one.”

“Good. It saves me people to kill.”

Dante grins, and then remembers enough of his principles that he bats at Vergil’s head.

“No killing the humans.”

Vergil’s arm curls around him, possessive.

“As long as they’re not searching for death, yes.”

“What’s your definition of ‘searching for death?’” Dante inquires.

Vergil kisses him. It’s deep, tender, and when has Dante’s hand lost itself in his brother’s hair?

“It begins with touching you. Come, Dante. I believe you were eager to be washed.”

“Oh, yeah. Want to go out for a pizza afterward?”

“No. Afterward, I want us to go to my room. Then we might take another shower and order pizzas. Tomorrow, we’ll burn your sheets and try to salvage your room. Any objections?”

Dante pretends to think about it and sighs dramatically.

“The _things _I do for you, Vergil.”

“I know,” Vergil answers softly.

Dante doesn’t know how to answer the sudden gravitas in his brother’s voice. He brings his twin’s hand to his lips and kisses it.

“The things _you _do for me, Vergil.”

“Destroying myself to vanquish you?” Vergil asks wryly.

“Making me happy, you fool.”

Vergil’s eyes widen and he gives Dante a small smile.

“Careful, Dante. You’re getting sappy.”

Dante playfully bumps into him. Vergil bumps back.

“C’mon! _You’re _the one who reads poetry.”

“My favorite poetry is the opposite of sappy. I’ll read you some if you behave.”

Dante laughs.

“Will I get love poems?”

“Maybe.” Vergil smirks at him.

“After pizza?”

“Grease does not suit aesthetic elevation.”

“Always the critic.”

Vergil grins. Dante does as well. Their hands are still intertwined, Vergil’s skin warm against Dante’s.

Later, Vergil will lick new splatters of blood from his nape, slow swipes of his tongue, slow brushes of his fingers against Dante’s skin. There’s love in the gesture, as twisted as it sounds; human attachment, demon possessiveness. Monster and mortal in one. It’s never been anything but the two at once, for them. That’s why Dante’s never been able to last with a mortal. That’s why he despises most demons.

“What are you thinking?” Vergil asks, fangs pressing softly against the human skin of his nape.

Dante closes his eyes, controlling the surge of animal aggressiveness that the gesture awakens in him.

“Want to drink your blood too.”

He doesn’t need it. Vergil doesn’t really, either. Vergil’s hand settles at the small of his back.

“Neck or wrist?” Vergil asks.

Dante grins.

“Neck.”

Vergil smirks, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for the twin's faces growing more similar comes (with autorization) from the lovely and very inventive [Garbagecan_not_garbagecannot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbagecan_not_garbagecannot)!
> 
> This fic also owe much to [this beautiful fanart by Habahabado](https://twitter.com/habahabado/status/1165450608159014912) and [Vananemo's incredible DMC fanarts](https://www.instagram.com/p/ByqI-ooA3hu/), namely their blood-drinking one. I saw these two pieces, and I realized I was forced by law to write something on the matter.
> 
> I wish you all a lovely day <3


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